Page 1 of Big Bad Single Wolf Dad

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GREG

“Picture it! The backyard gardens, forty-five minutes ago!” my seven-year-old daughter, Lily, says as I hold back the eye roll for after the kids are tucked in.

“Lily-bear, please,” I protest, tucking her in even tighter.

I stare down at the young werewolf, knowing she won’t be able to squirm out of the blanket burrito I’ve wrapped her in — not until I’m downstairs and entertaining the numerous guests I have enjoying the charity event without me. If my assistant Mike doesn’t save me at least a plate of bacon-wrapped steak sandwiches, minus the bread, he’ll be making a food run as soon as the sun comes back up.

“Hey, Dad,” my sons Ollie and Noah say at the same time.

I blink rather than growl. My pups are my life, but there are mini, deep-fried deviled eggs downstairs. And beautiful women. And apricot-glazed ham sandwiches, which I will be taking the pretzel bread out of as soon as Mike gets a plate in front of me.

“It’s a really important story,” Ollie, my four-year-old and youngest child, says as I contemplate making a wolf blanket burrito out of him.

“It’s really not.” I guess it’s Noah’s turn to add his two cents.

“That’s because you were the one who fell into the koi pond,” Lily-bear says.

“I didn’t fall. I was elbowed,” Noah hisses.

“My elbow didn’t touch you! Tell Dad, Ollie. I just needed to sneeze but then my armpits started itching. I couldn’t help the call to scratch.”

“Both of them? At the same time? You can do better than that. But later when Dad has time, right, Dad?”

I watch my daughter struggling to break free of her blanket burrito as her nine-year-old brother Noah cuts her off. He likes to show me how mature he is by pretending he’s mature. It’s cute but also not that believable. It’s why I’ll have to inquire further about this koi pond situation tomorrow. For now, I can see my eldest doesn’t have a single scratch on his face, arms, or right leg, which he’s kicked out from under his silver and blue sheets.

“Lily, goodnight. Ditto to you two,” I say, spinning around to head out the door.

I roll my eyes now that my broad back is to them. I feel something soft hitting my shoulder blades. Probably a stuffed animal or dolly. I’ll have to wrap Lily-bear even tighter tomorrow night. They grow up so fast, especially when you’re doing it all alone.

“Dad!”

It’s Ollie. I’m equal parts proud and annoyed. His aim was wonderful. His timing, not so much. Could use some work, I’d say.

“I’m ignoring you all starting now,” I say, noticing the rolled pair of socks at my feet. I pick them up and toss them into the laundry basket. These kids need to learn how to pick up after themselves.

“But I got a picture mid-fall!” Lily-bear hollers.

“He was really scared. You don’t understand!” I shake my head, almost at the door when Ollie continues. “Zombie Mike went in after him!”

“I can swim!” Noah says defensively, grabbing his pillow, then pulling his dark blue comforter off one of the handcrafted car beds I commissioned for the three.

“That’s not what I saw.” Ollie shakes his head at his brother, giving him an all-too-serious look. “Noah’s got kicking problems is my humble observation.”

If there’s one thing I know about my youngest, it’s that he feels his mother’s death acutely, though in his own calculating way. I know behind his golden-green eyes lay a bonfire of fear. Mostly of loss, I’d say.

“He needs swim lessons, stat.” Ollie slaps the sides of his own car bed, a deep shade of red flecked with black and green flames, per the youngling’s request. “Wolves don’t drown. Or dog paddle.”

“Is his humble observation,” the other two say in unison.

“I was wondering how you were so good at saying that…” I trail off, knowing I’ve just made a mistake. I don’t tend to rope myself into late-night chats on nights I need to network.

“Pracise. Pratice. Pratice,” Ollie tries. It’s not as easy for him at four years old to master all the words, but his siblings generally know what he’s trying to say.

“Practice,” Lily-bear corrects. “It’s the same thing Noah needs. Maybe Zombie Mike, too, Dad. And also, I could use horse lessons. Since everyone else gets swimming lessons.”

I’m not dumb enough to point out she doesn’t have a horse. She’s not an idiot, just a persuasive and precocious seven-year-old wolfling currently driving me nuts. I wonder what their late mother thinks of all this chatter. Didn’t they hear me all this past week? Dad’s busy one night this weekend.

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